


Wingman

by Lochinvar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Awesome Dean Winchester, Awesome Sam Winchester, BAMF Dean, BAMF Sam, Best Green Chili, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Brotherly Love, Canon Related, College, Colorado, Comfort Food, Cowboy Dean, Drunk Dancing, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Happy, Hunter Dean, Hunter Sam, Implied Slash, Implied/Referenced Incest, Inspired by Music, Kansas, Kissing, M/M, Movie Reference, Music, Musical References, Nat King Cole, No Angst, No Sex, No Smut, Non-Graphic Reference to Violence, POV First Person, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, POV Outsider, Playlist, Pool, Pool Table Kissing, Protective Ellen, Road House - Freeform, Romance, Some Humor, State of the Art Kissing, Wincest if you squint, Women Being Awesome, sangria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Wincesters being awesome on a night off, with a sound track spanning generations, a kissing contest, great Tex-Mex and sangria, and a little dancing. Fall in love with the brothers all over again.</p><p>Rated teen (to be on the safe side) for references to off-screen violence (nothing explicit or graphic), implied premarital sex, gambling, implied incest, polka-dancing, ethnopoetics, and praxeology. And Dean in tight blue jeans.</p><p>Fluffy ode to road houses, great music, the importance of romance, and everyone falling in love</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Roadhouse

**Author's Note:**

> Set on the road, not season specific, but probably before season six. 
> 
> Ellen and Ash appear, but not sure if these versions know about the hunter's world or are part of it. Also, I am concerned that Ellen has djinn working for her, but maybe that is why the food and music are so good.
> 
> I own nothing and am grateful to Kripke, et al.
> 
> [Minor edits - November 18, 2015]
> 
> [Minor edits - August 29, 2016]

It was our third year at a decent Kansas university. Midterms loomed, and we were blowing off steam before our last study marathon.

The five of us became friends while processing and shelving books at our undergraduate library. I was an English major (Yeats and the Celtic Twilight) dreaming of a tenured faculty position to support my chronic book-buying habit. Susan was to be a filmmaker, but she was smart enough to focus on finance. Jan’s majors were political science and sociology; she planned to file papers to run for city council in her Illinois hometown the day after she graduated. Yep, that Jan. That governor. Phyllis’ career in robotics and Sandy’s future in medicine were taken for granted. They were cousins from an immigrant family whose little girls honored the sacrifices of their parents with well-paying professional careers. The fact they were both wicked smart did not hurt. 

Actually, we were all smart and committed to success. We were respected by our peers and were living up to the expectations of our professors and families.

What we lacked was romance.

Casual sex was easy for our generation, and the fluidity of roles more or less doubled the availability of hook-ups. But courtship had devolved into “Can you hand me the roll of paper towels?” That changed for us all one crisp, fall evening.

Susan found Ellen’s Roadhouse just over the county line. The online reviews said the Tex-Mex was terrific and the well drinks cheap. It was supposed to have the best digital jukebox this side of Austin, from Chicago blues to canonical Detroit techno, Bing Crosby to Bruno Mars, Chubby Checkers to India.Arie, heavy metal, Motown, Tejano, show tunes, and classic folk. It was one of those places that attracted long-haul truckers and savvy business travelers, off-duty state police mingling with bikers, working class families, and, yes, college students. The parking lot was mostly empty, which meant we scored a big booth at the back near the pool tables.

We hung our coats and scarves on wooden pegs on the wall and littered the booth with our purses.

I scanned the room. High ceiling with big beams hung with lights and speakers. Sprung maple floor. Raised stage and a space for dancing at the far end, pool tables at the opposite wall underneath a second-floor office with windows. Booths on one side and a long wooden bar with stools and a bar rail on the other. A brightly lit kitchen peeked from service windows behind the bar.  Clusters of tables packed the middle of the room. Two big hi-def screens hung from the ceiling behind the bar, running muted news and sports feeds, captions on.

The jukebox was nestled up against a wall just across from our booth by the end of the bar. It was built by a local whiz kid, MIT dropout Ash. I later learned he made his living as a white hat hacker.

The jukebox’s shell looked like it was lifted from a 50s diner, all chrome and colored lights. Inside was a computer server stuffed with thousands of songs; the interface was a touch screen panel. You could pay with cash, a quarter a song, or fork over money at the bar and get a code to tap in. 

You also could create a playlist, but hogging time would make you _persona non grata_. Lovesick drunks were notorious for stuffing the machine with money to worship The One Song played infinitum. Long-suffering customers and wait staff had been known to yank the plug from the wall and eject the perpetrators bodily out the back door. No refunds.

When customers were not punching in their requests, employees would create their own playlists, reaching into the dusty corners of the collection: Thelonious Monk, Richard Dyer-Bennett, The Kinks, and Siobhan McKenna and Cyril Cusack reading Yeats.

An album of jazz vocalists was playing, which by the end of the hour morphed into contemporary R&B and female rappers. 

Two waitresses and a teenaged bus boy managed the space efficiently. Framed by the service windows, a pair of cooks–brothers?–with clean-shaven heads and blue face tattoos worked silently. Probably was a dishwasher somewhere, hidden from view.

Solitary drinkers at the bar had the planted look of regulars. A quartet of state police eating supper flirted with one of the waitresses, a high-cheeked, middle-aged beauty with skin the color of dark parchment and a length of black and silver hair braided with red yarn. Young parents were filling up kids with cheap chow. No one cared if toddlers spilled or babies cried. Couples were drinking and feeding each other from plates of wings and tacos. If the music were right, they would slow dance, beer mugs in hand. Once in a while someone would stumble to their feet and sway alone.

We ordered a pitcher of red sangria, the house specialty. They did it right, strong chianti mixed with cheap brandy, tart cherry juice, apple slices, and, much to Susan the Foodie’s delight, muddled defrosted peaches, with the proper balance of seltzer and a touch of sugar.

The nachos platter was almost as big as the tabletop, and they cooked the blue corn tortilla chips in-house. Having been born and raised in Pueblo, Colorado, I wondered how Kansas pork green chili could live up to my impossible standards. My mouth waters at the memory. Fire-roasted Hatch chiles, flecks of ripe tomato, fresh ground peppercorns and cumin seeds, thick gravy heavy with melt-in-your-mouth chunks of pork, and the soul-cleansing, long fruity kiss and burn of Scotch bonnets: the tactical nuclear weapon of the chile family. 

A few feet away two men were playing pool under hooded lights. They didn’t talk; the atmosphere more resembled a surgical theater than a roadhouse pool hall. Frat Dude in expensive clothing that mimicked well-loved hand-me-downs versus Tall Kid, late 20s, maybe six foot five, in thrift-store flannels and jeans. A couple of middle-aged bar flies with bleached hair were holding handfuls of bills. They were the bank. A cluster of truckers drinking domestic beer studied the game from inside the circles of light. Orbiting like lesser asteroids, a half-dozen collateral frat boys lounged, sucking bottles of wine coolers and watching the money and the women more than the play.

Could not tell who was winning, but it was not Tall Kid, rocking back and forth in ancient sneakers on the balls of his feet. His mop of silky brown hair was almost shoulder length and hid his face. But his large hands were beautiful, with long fingers made for playing Chopin.

So sue me, I have an eye for detail. My poet’s temperament.


	2. Enter The Cowboy

One man leaned against the bar on his elbows. Legs splayed open in tacit welcome. He wore fitted blue jeans and a black t-shirt, tight across broad shoulders. 30-ish, a tad over six feet tall. He was sipping a shot glass of something clear, head bopping to Queen Lafitah.

He was looking over the customers like my uncle Stuart from Walsenburg, CO, would preview unbroken fillies at a stock sale. When he saw us, fresh-faced, in our snug college-girl sweaters, he smiled.

I was wrong. He was looking at us like my uncle Stuart looked at the pastry tray at that French restaurant in Denver he treated my sisters and me to on my 18th birthday.

Tight Jeans slid off his stool and, sauntered–sauntered!–on bandy legs over to our booth.

Oh. My. God.

I am in love before he crossed the floor.

Years later I will be watching schlocky 1940s Technicolor Western films on a local community tv station, and I think I see him (realistically, his much older doppelganger) smiling under a Stetson, standing a step behind the hero. Boyish freckles, a hint of red and gold in his hair, perfect cheekbones stained with late summer sun, angled jawline, and startling green eyes. Probably a local cowboy, roped in to make a little drinking money as an extra on location in Monument Valley.

Susan, now a Hollywood film producer devoted to 21st century Westerns, will track down a copy of the movie and burn it to a dvd. I run it once a year on my birthday, sipping a glass of homemade sangria. I will hit pause and drown in his movie star smile, the way my beautiful bow-legged cowboy smiled at us that night. As I told my kids more than once when they caught me, I am married, not dead.

“Ladies,” he said with a touch of Big D drawl. “Welcome to Ellen’s. I’m Dean. May I join you? May I buy you another pitcher of red?” He took his time, not presuming. Letting us decide.

His voice was dark and rich. A single-malt baritone.

We were all staring. Susan looked amused and appreciative. Sandy seemed slightly dazed. Phyllis licked her lips and swallowed. Twice. Jan, even then the consummate diplomat, spoke first.

“Uh, yeah, sit, red, yes.” Like that, but not so articulate. This same woman blazed through her first campaign with an 85% win. I plan to vote for her for President some day.

Dean twisted a chair around and straddled it, his jeans pulling tighter against his thighs. I squirmed. He motioned towards the bar with a wave and a smile, pointing to the table and himself. The waitress with the black and silver hair brought a fresh pitcher of red sangria and a bowl of blue corn chips, hot from the fryer, to refresh the plate of nachos.

Dean, my cowboy, poured himself a tall serving in a glass mug, silently toasted our group, tilted his head back, and drank it down, slow and sure. Belched like an annoying older brother, grinned wickedly, reached forward, and set the glass back on the booth’s table.

We went around the table and introduced ourselves. He stood up, came around in front of his chair to the booth, leaned over, and shook hands with each of us. Strong calloused hands, but his grip was gentle.

Close up, the impact was breathtaking. Did I mention his green eyes, which have ever since been my lifetime standard for what color green eyes should be?

Smelled nice, leather and plain soap, the slightest whiff of garages, and, to my experienced nose, gun oil. Then returned to straddle his chair.

He asked questions and listened to the answers. We competed to see who was best at making him grin, making him laugh out loud.

Sandy got serious and told about her pre-med school visit to a small community clinic in rural Kansas up by Lebanon. What it felt like to watch the nurse practitioner patch up a messy victim of some mystery animal attack. Dean frowned and worried his lower lip with those perfect teeth.

I inhaled sharply. I was lost. Decided I would cook for him, clean for him, write poems about him.

The evening’s soundtrack bounced from Taylor Swift and Willie Nelson to The Grateful Dead and Metallica, some 60s girl groups and Smoky Robinson, and, oh dear, Mariachi. I learned to polka at a church social one Sunday in Kenosha, WI with my cousins and insisted my college best buddies learn. Dean followed us, laughing, as we stampeded onto the dance floor. Susan and Phyllis, Sandy and Jan, and because there is a kind and loving God, me and my cowboy.

We galloped in a sloppy circle around the dance floor, laughing hysterically. His arms were strong, like really strong…like someone who has to be strong for a living, not someone who builds pretty muscles at the gym.

He was supernaturally good-looking and liked women, and his arms were snug around me as we swung around the room. I am sure my feet never touched the ground.

We fed the jukebox more quarters and played the same track six times, dodging around the tables to the amusement of the remaining customers. The other waitress turned out to be Ellen, the owner, a tough-looking dark blonde with the lean, muscled body of an Olympic swimmer. She good-humoredly threatened us with instant death or worse if we did not play something–anything–else.

“10,000 songs, girlies,” she said.

I built a Stevie Wonder/Stevie Nicks/Selena playlist, and let it ride.

We slid back in the booth, and Dean took up his position on his chair, ordering a third round of sangria, hot queso blanco dip, green tomatillo salsa, and more chips. We tried the white sangria this time: white wine, Colorado moonshine, white grape juice, pears, and apples. Fizzier and drier than the red.

Dean fished out fruit slices from his mug with his fingers and slowly sucked on them with sinful pink lips. Yes, I was a good, good girl, and God was rewarding me.


	3. The Tall Kid

Meanwhile, back at the pool tables, Tall Kid had made an impossible shot in the final game and beat his Abercrombie and Fitch opponent, winning three fistfuls of cash in the process. The truckers laughed, even though they lost their side bets. One of the bar flies hugged him. The more sober of the frat boys were pulling away the shouting loser.

“This ain’t poker, Brandon. How could he cheat?”

Tall Kid looked stunned and anchored himself by gripping the edge of the pool table. He collected the money from the women and thanked them each with a chaste kiss on the cheek and a $20 bill from his winnings.

The frat boys mumbled off into the night, and the truckers bought Tall Kid a beer and left. The bar flies found a table in a corner and held hands, heads together, whispering.

Tall Kid glanced around and quickly sifted through the bills like a seasoned cab driver, adding a few more that he teased from his money clip. He sorted them by denomination and folded the fat pile in half, securing it with a rubber band he pulled from a front pocket and stuffing it deep into what looked like an industrial-weight security pouch sewed inside his heavy, plaid flannel shirt. Then, he fiddled a moment and zipped the pouch closed. 

Wow, paranoid much, I thought. 

Tall Kid racked the balls up again and played against himself. This time, he was rock steady, tall and true, no unfocused eyes or big-footed stumbling. He tipped his head back to drink his beer from a long-necked bottle, slow and sure. The gesture looked familiar. He saw me watching, toasted me with the bottle, and finished it off in long, smooth swallows.

He cleared the pool table with military efficiency. The same Uncle Stuart who loved horses and cream puffs once lined up empty beer cans on top of a row of hay bales and pinged them with his beloved 9mm. Perfect score. Tall Kid was that young lanky Jimmy Stewart good, from when movie stars in white hats never missed.

My playlist ran out. Ellen trotted over to the jukebox, stared at the touch screen, and rapidly chose. Sweet love songs began to play, starting with a medley of World War II favorites, the kind my mom hummed while she washed the dishes.

“You made me love you,” sang Judy Garland to Clark Gable. 

Tall Kid finished his game and strolled over to our booth, stopping next to my cowboy.

Tall comes in lots of packages. This version was layered with muscles over broad shoulders and long legs. Reminded me of a Colorado NFL wide end I used to crush on, same sweet smile and hair falling in his eyes. 

Tall Kid didn’t have the startling good looks of my cowboy, but he had something else. Dean’s face was all British Isles and Golden Mean. (Have you ever fallen in love with a perfect ratio of chin to eyes to cheeks?) Tall Kid was fey: pointed chin, sharp nose, broad mouth, and dimples that carved his face open as soon as he smiled. 

The Mongolian Empire had stretched into central Europe; I recognized those tilted fox eyes, hazel tinged in amber and moss, from a Polish wedding I attended on the south side of Milwaukee.

My cowboy was a beautiful prince, but the Kid looked like an enchanted warrior king. 

Then Dean looked up and smiled. The Tall Kid smiled back. Something turned up the lights on both faces.

“My buddy Sam,” Dean said, and introduced us. He remembered our names without prompting, as if we were old friends. 

Sam leaned in and shook hands with each of us. Like Dean, he was gentle. He smelled of that fancy European green bath gel I never could afford, musk and evergreen. I think Phyllis swooned just a little teeny bit. 

Sam found a chair and pulled it up alongside Dean, curling his long legs underneath. Susan poured him a glass of the white sangria, which he accepted with a smile and a shy nod of his head. I offered him the plate of chips. He politely took one and nibbled at it with perfect white teeth and lips. If I were not already besotted with Dean, I would have considered the Polish Prince a catch. He steadily sipped the sangria until he emptied the glass, said his thanks, and put the glass back on the booth’s table. Another guy with manners.

A pause in the conversation while we ladies sat and stared. Sigh. (May I say we girls, because I was feeling young at the moment.)

My cowboy’s eyes twinkled. Yep, flashed green and greener. Watch the stars pulse at 1 am on La Veta Pass (9,426 ft.) on 160, on the way from Walsenburg to Alamosa, and you’ll know what I mean. Uncle Stuart woke me up and drove me out one summer night, so I could see the Milky Way. First time I realized that stars had colors.

“How about,” he said, “a little game?” 


	4. The Kiss

Sam turned to look at Dean, his face a mask.

“My buddy Sam here is the best, I mean the very best kisser in The Sunflower State. He has you smart, beautiful ladies to pick from. It would be ed-u-ca-tion-al if Sam chose one of you to show the rest of us what expert kissing looks like.” 

Sam blushed, a tint of rose across his broad, tanned cheeks, and held up a hand in protest.

“My apologies for Dean. He is an idiot,” he said. 

The sangria was deceptively innocent; the potent punch of hard liquor swimming in its depths was having its effect. And we had finished the third pitcher.

“I’m game,” said Sandy, who would become the head of emergency services at an inner-city hospital in Chicago. At the first of our yearly reunion luncheons, when asked to share the latest tales of gore and mystery animal attacks, she would grow quiet and shake her head. No more stories.

We waved, giggled, blew kisses, winked. I joined in, but I never took my eyes off my cowboy. And his eyes were on Sam. 

Sam looked annoyed, but it was obvious he wanted to make the situation right. Maybe he would kiss us all? Or would this be some roadhouse version of Spin the Bottle? He stood up, impossibly tall, and he smiled down at us. Like the sight of us made him happy. He moved his chair to the side and stepped back, as if to shoot a panoramic landscape in one take.

“Hard to choose,” he said.

Susan was a young Michelle Pfeiffer look-alike, slender, all cheekbones and wispy blond hair. She preferred women, but acted as if she was willing to toss her hat in the ring. Jan was a bony, athletic redhead full of tomboy energy. Phyllis, the mechanical engineering major, looked like a 50s starlet: curvy, flawless ivory skin, and thick, golden-brown curls. Sandy might have passed for Dean’s sister, with a spray of freckles, strawberry blond waves, and grey-green eyes. Me? I had a pretty mouth (or so I was told), soulful brown eyes, and the way I fill out a sweater has brought me more than my fair share of students for obscure graduate seminars on ethnopoetics and Objectivist verse.

Sam made his choice.

He turned and looked at Dean. His smile softened, became tender. He motioned silently with both hands. 

Up, Dean.

Dean tilted his head, deepened his own smile, and stood up. Sam put one hand on Dean’s chest, over his heart, and slowly, slowly backed him into the alcove where the pool tables stretched out like napping beasts. Hypnotized, we ladies scooted out from the booth and silently followed. We stood in shadows around the tables and watched. 

The first thing I noticed was how Sam tweaked the space continuum. Time did not just slow down; it dawdled. The men’s bodies moved as if pushing through dreamtime, where the air was as thick and sweet as honey. They both breathed deeply, pulling oxygen in from across the room. 

Sam backed Dean up against a pool table. They stopped. Effortlessly he clamped his hands low on Dean’s hips, lifted him in one motion onto the table, and resumed slowly pushing on his chest. Dean leaned back on his elbows, the light from one of the shaded spots illuminating his face. Tears began to streak my face–the moonshine in the sangria helped a little, I suppose–responding to his beauty. 

Sam leaned in, hands pressed against the green cloth on both sides of Dean’s body, and he kissed my cowboy’s forehead, allowing his lips to linger. Dean closed his eyes at the touch. Sam held the kiss and waited, five beats, six, seven, then leaned back. When Dean peeked, perhaps to see what was going to happen next, Sam leaned in and kissed one brow, then another. Dean closed his eyes again and, this time, kept them closed. Sam slowly kissed one eyelid, then another. Then the tops of Dean’s lightly freckled cheeks, each time lingering. Taking his time.

Of course, God was in control of the music. Nat King Cole began to sing Nature Boy, while Pan played his flute over a gypsy orchestra on Ecstasy. Face it, God has a corny streak. 

_…a very strange enchanted boy…_

Dean, still with eyes closed, tilted his face up a millimeter.

I stopped breathing.

Sam leaned in and brushed their lips together, once, twice, three times. The softest of touches. Then, he pulled away and licked his lips. He parted them as he breathed in and pressed against Dean’s perfect mouth. Dean opened up and sighed in surrender. The clock of the world broke, and time stopped.

Something inside me broke as well, and I realized that my cowboy would never be mine. 

A hundred years later, Sam pulled away a few inches from Dean’s face. He stayed leaning with his long arms braced on either side of my cowboy, and Dean was still leaning on his elbows, eyes closed. Sam studied Dean’s face as if it was the most important thing he had ever seen.  
  
Now I understood the lore of elven kingdoms under moss hills and why someone could be enchanted for a generation, not knowing how many years had passed. How Sleeping Beauty could be captured with sweet poison and then rescued with the kiss of true love.

Nat King Cole finished. I thought I heard, from a celestial gallery, the wings of angels rustling. Pinions held motionless during the song and now released. Mom said that Cole sung on the soundtrack of Heaven. When I made a 16-year-old face, she told me that I was too young to understand. Got what she meant that night.

Someone rang a bell. 

“Last call,” said Ellen. She began flipping off the lights. The bar was empty, except for the bar flies who had not moved since the pool game and our group. The dark-haired waitress and the bus boy were making one final round, picking up stray napkins and wiping down tables. We could hear dishes clinking through the kitchen service window. 

Sam stood up straight, Dean opened his eyes, and the two men looked at each other. Sam lifted Dean off the table. They remembered us and turned as one.


	5. Wingman

Our sugar buzzes from the sangria were fading, and our gang of five was in tacit agreement, wanting to leave the bar as quickly as possible. We scrambled to find purses, coats, and scarves. I paid the bill; Uncle Stuart was generous with my walking around money. By custom, our group would settle up later.

Sam and Dean helped us into our coats and insisted on walking us to our car. We lingered in the parking lot under a moonless night sky. Now that we were leaving, no one wanted to go.

Dean cut Sandy, our budding doc, out of the group and walked her a few feet way. He talked, she answered. They looked like they were discussing funeral arrangements. He wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She took it reluctantly. 

They walked back to the group. Dean was smiling again, but I could tell this was not a flirtation. When I asked her later, just a little bit jealous, she told me it was nothing. For work, she said. I remembered her story about the animal attack. Did Dean say he was from Lebanon?

Impatient, Phyllis, the tallest of our gaggle of coeds, strode ahead, only to be stopped dead in her tracks by the sight of a 1967 Impala, reflecting starlight from its black, shiny body. Now I knew what I looked like while I was enthralled with my cowboy. 

Jan smirked.

“Get a room, Phyl,” she said, much to Dean’s obvious delight. 

“My Baby,” he said, and flourished a hand with a quick bow, like a crown prince making a formal introduction in the throne room.

His car. Of course it was. 

Sandy pulled Phyllis away and whispered consolations in her ear. We were not surprised years later when Phyllis, by then a Silicon Valley rock star, called her first successful moon buggy _The Impala._

Jan was our permanent designated driver; she had warned us early in our friendship that a moving violation, especially a DUI, would not help her political career. We piled into the old fourth-hand powder blue Buick that Jan’s father had given her on her 18th birthday. Built like a WW II tank. To his way of thinking anything that hit us would bounce off.

Sam and Dean waved as we drove into the night, back to school.

I came back the next night, alone. The bar flies were there, more truckers, and a friendly posse of Christian bikers on their way to a Habit for Humanity site in East St. Louis. Ash the Hacker was bartending, dressed like the front man for a rockabilly band. I waited at the bar for Ellen to spare me a minute; she slid me a cherry cola and refused payment.

“So…will Dean be in tonight?” I asked.

She smiled in sympathy.

“Dean…and Sam stop by every couple of years. They drink, hustle pool, make the ladies dizzy, don’t see them again for months and months. Some kind of law enforcement officers, I think, always packing. Feds or military. Once those sweet boys double-teamed a half-dozen bad dudes at the pool tables; took them for a grand. The gang jumped them in the parking lot. By the time I got out the door with my Remington 870, the two of them had laid the dudes out on the asphalt, as neat as you please. They were laughing so hard they could hardly stand up.” 

“Dean is Sam’s wingman, I think, but have never seen either of them leave with anyone. Except…each other.”

I went back many times, always alone. Never saw them again, but ended up on a first-name basis with Ellen, Ash, and the waitress, Stef. Brought my uncle Stuart when he came to visit; Ellen was furious because he and Stef disappeared for three days. At the time, had no idea how old people could work up such passion. Now I know. 

Okay, so I said that something changed for our group of five overachievers that night. We now all wanted that moment when time stopped. We wanted, no, demanded romance with slow kisses and a killer sound track. We learned the right lessons from our Sangria Night, which is how we have referred to it to this day. We did not chase after pretty boys and girls with nothing going for them but pink lips and foxy eyes, not to say that pink lips and foxy eyes could not be awesome in context. We all found ourselves human beings who were kind, paid attention, and took their time. 

Two years later I was in grad school back in Colorado, reading poetry at my first college-sponsored solo performance. Finished, took an ironic bow, and basked in the friendly applause.

A man dressed in a sloppy sweater and ancient jeans came up to me. His thick brown hair needed a trim. His skin was fair, and his eyes were blue and gray like a stormy ocean. His manners were impeccable. Old money, boarding schools, and I suspected at least one drawing room or palace in his past. Used 19th century words; I thought at first that he was a time traveler.

He liked my work, he said. In the time it took me to finish my last set, he had studied my bio on the printed program and read that I loved sangria. He looked up on his smart phone local restaurants that crafted their own cocktail ingredients. Found one within walking distance–opened late–that claimed a dozen versions of sangria and salsa. Would I be willing to go out with him for a bite and a drink? He had made a reservation for us, just in case.  
  
Really? Who was this man? What century was he from? _What planet?_

He was an economic professor, and even oblivious me, who had not stepped outside a lit school since my freshman year, had heard of him. A respectful profile in The New Yorker has made him a household name. Ten years old than me. He was modest, paid attention to every word I said, even taking notes in microscopic handwriting on index cards that he had stashed away in his ancient leather wallet.

I thought he was sweet, but frankly, I was bored. We had little in common. And when he began telling me about his work in methodological subjectivism and praxeology, I am sure my eyes glazed over.

We strolled back to campus, and he asked if he could walk me to my door. I said yes. He asked me if he could kiss me good night, and I said yes, slightly baffled. He was taller than me by several inches. He cupped my face in his hands and tilted it upward. Suddenly, all that intelligent intensity and attention to detail was focused on me. He kissed my forehead and worked his way down to my lips. 

Yes, my knees buckled, and the world slipped to a stop.

I asked him today about that kiss, the best kiss of my life. He said, without hesitation, that he kissed me because he recognized something important in me and wanted to honor it. Yes, he still talks like a 19th century time traveler–our grandkids agree–but now I teach my poetry students about methodological subjectivism, which translates into Whatever Turns You On. 

I told him about Sam and Dean. He listened carefully and smiled. Did I mention his eyes twinkle, blue and bluer?

“I wish I could thank them,” he said. “Sounds like Dean was my wingman as well.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much for the kudos and comments.
> 
> Interested in how the boys are viewed by other people and how they might impact lives outside of horror of the canon. And wish there was time for more real romance. I hope the boys will be happy again, some day. Meanwhile, I write.
> 
> Also, there is not enough written about smart, happy, accomplished women who are not seriously flawed (I guess they are a little boring, but they don't think so), and I don't think Dean is the shallow womanizer he pretends to be. 
> 
> The kiss really happened pretty much as described, my knees did turn to rubber, it was the best kiss of my life, and yes, married the economics geek. Took some liberties in describing our romance, but not many. He likes that I gave him a profile in The New Yorker.
> 
> Stuart did once live and laugh, and those smart girls are all alive: successful, respected, and loved. Names, identities, dates, and details have been modified to protect the guilty. 
> 
> However, La Veta Pass exists, and but that French restaurant in Denver closed recently.
> 
> I have visited a hundred bars and road houses like Ellen's, but none quite like this one. I am a snob about green chili, and the sky over La Veta Valley is really that pretty.


End file.
